Deep Cover (23 page)

‘It traps you like that, London does. That's what Gaynor's problem was.'

‘Gaynor?'

‘The Welsh girl, she had the room you're in. She was murdered in there . . . remember . . . we told you . . .'

‘Yes . . .'

‘Best not to ask too many questions, but like we said, she was brought home by the guy whose room it really was – brought her in off the street, just to keep her safe. He was going to send her home and he also wanted away from Yates. They both made the wrong sort of noises . . . so follow my drift?'

‘Yes, I think so. Am I in danger?'

‘We all are – that's why her majesty upstairs is on edge. She runs this house for Yates; she tells him everything that goes on here.' Josie Pinder's voice dropped to a whisper. ‘She would have told him about Mickey Dalkeith and Gaynor planning to leave.'

‘Why didn't he want them to leave?' Yewdall paused. ‘Sorry, questions . . . I shouldn't ask . . . you're right . . . that's good advice.'

‘Best remember it, but Mickey was a long-time member of Yates's firm, more than a gofer . . . not real high up but high up enough to know where all the bodies is buried, makes him a liability. Yates had Gaynor strangled in Mickey Dalkeith's room so Mickey would get fingered for it if he ran, but Mickey does not come home as expected . . . turns out he went to sleep on Hampstead Heath instead. He told Sonya where he was going, and Yates and one of his heavies went after him . . . followed a set of footprints on the off chance and came across Mickey Dalkeith lying there. So I was told, anyway.'

‘Asleep?'

‘In the snow . . . hypothermia . . . suicide, I reckon. He must have thought it was his only exit.'

‘I see.'

‘So the police came here investigating Mickey's death and found Gaynor's body, put two and two together – Mickey's slain Gaynor and then topped himself by lying down in the snow rather than do life. So Yates is well pleased. He's off the hook and Mickey's not a threat to him no more. But things have not gone away for some reason I don't know about. The filth is still sniffing around Yates and Bowling.'

‘Bowling?'

‘His female oppo. Watch her if you run into her; they say she's worse than him.'

‘OK, thanks for the warning.'

‘So that's why she's on edge.' Josie Pinder pointed to the room she shared with Sonya Clements. ‘She came back from the garage yesterday. She had to watch one of Yates's heavies get a kicking.'

‘The garage?'

‘Yes, a lock-up really, under the railway arches, down the East End somewhere. I've never been there myself. He'd been lifted by the filth who took him in for a chat. He says he didn't say anything to the filth but he got a kicking anyway as a warning. He was one of the heavies who iced Dunwoodie, so he can damage Yates if he wants to do so. You know, turn Queen's evidence, go into witness protection. This guy, Clive someone, he swore blind he didn't tell the filth anything, but he got a kicking anyway . . . like just a gentle – a very, very gentle – reminder not to ever say anything . . . not ever.'

‘Blimey.'

‘So she came back shaking like a leaf 'cos she'd seen a kicking before, but not like that, she says. Went on all day, it did. They stopped for lunch and carried on in the afternoon. They left him on the pavement a mile or so away. Let him be found and taken to hospital. He'll still be bruised in six months' time and every waking movement for him will be agony. But you'll see a kicking.'

‘I will?'

‘Yes. You're a gofer aren't you?'

‘Am I?'

‘Have you done an errand, delivered a message or a parcel?'

‘A parcel.'

‘OK, so you're a gofer, you're in the firm. You'll be collected to witness a kicking if someone gets out of order, and they tell you that's what'll happen to you if you get left field. Being a girl makes no difference.'

There was the sound of movement from upstairs.

‘She's getting up.' Josie Pinder grimaced. ‘She'll want her tea.' She stood and partly filled the battered aluminium kettle with water, then ignited a gas ring on the oven and placed the kettle on the flames.

‘How do I get out?' Yewdall asked plaintively. ‘This is getting too much for me.'

‘You don't, sweetheart. Feet first possibly. Other than that you don't get out.' Josie Pinder reached for a clean mug and placed a little milk into it. ‘You're in . . . and believe me . . . you'd better keep your pretty little nose clean, as clean as a whistle. Cleaner.'

Vicary sat down in the chair in front of the desk in the interview suite at New Scotland Yard. ‘We meet again, Mr Yates.'

‘Seems so.' Curtis Yates was dressed casually in closely fitting casual clothes that showed off his muscular build. ‘So what's this about?'

‘A chat.' Vicary smiled. ‘Just a chat.'

‘Then why has my client been arrested?' The middle-aged man wearing a pinstripe suit who sat next to Yates spoke with a soft voice, which Vicary thought could be disarming if he let it. It seemed to Vicary that he was the embodiment of Teddy Roosevelt's advice to ‘speak softly and carry a big stick', a man, thought Vicary, not be underestimated.

‘Because I am doing him a favour.' Vicary smiled at the lawyer, one Kieran Worth, of Worth, Lockwood and Company. The Rolex on his left wrist spoke clearly of the level of fees he commanded. ‘If he'll let me.'

‘You want to do me a favour?' Yates sneered. ‘Don't go putting yourself out for nothing.'

‘Well, you scratch my back,' Vicary replied calmly. ‘But we've been investigating you.'

‘I know you have. Don't got nowhere, do you?'

‘Closer than you think. You know we can link you to the murder of Rosemary Halkier. Remember her? Ten years ago now she was your girl. We can link you to Michael Dalkeith's death, and you're there in the background of Gaynor Davies' murder. You see our interest, Curtis? You don't mind if I call you Curtis?'

‘Don't mind.'

‘We really want to talk to Rusher. Can't remember his name but it's in the file. It's quite thick now . . . the file . . . our witness gave a good description of him. Quite close when Rusher was battering Mr Dunwoodie to death in the alley. The geezer with Rusher said, “That's enough, Rusher”, but Rusher kept on battering away saying, “The boss wants him dead”. So, if we can find Rusher . . . and he tells us you're the boss in question . . . well, then, then you go down, for a long stretch. All this smoke that surrounds you, Curtis, this odour of suspicion, it smells like Billingsgate Market at the end of a long summer's day. Have you ever smelled rotten fish, Curtis? Got a distinct smell all its own it has, like fear. You must have smelled fear from someone . . . quite often I imagine.'

‘Maybe . . .'

Vicary leaned forward. ‘You see, Curtis, it's time to think . . . now . . . off the record – off the record, you won't be prosecuted for all the men and women you've chilled or had chilled. So in a sense you'll get away with those murders.'

Yates smiled.

Vicary held up a finger. ‘Don't get cocky, Curtis, because we don't have to prosecute you for all of them.' He paused. ‘Just think about that. You've only got one life, so all we need is one conviction, and right now we're looking at three murders which are covered in your dabs.'

‘You can't link me to them.'

‘Yet.' Vicary smiled briefly. ‘Not yet. Just needs one of your firm to do a deal for themselves. Like I said, just one conviction will get you a life stretch. I tell you, if I was one of your firm, and I thought you were going to topple, then I'd be squealing very loudly, very, very loudly. You can forget getting out in five years; career crims like you don't get past the parole board.'

‘That's coercion.' Worth smelled of expensive aftershave.

‘It's the truth.' Vicary turned to Worth. ‘I am just doing Mr Curtis the favour I said I would do for him if he let me. Now, should he wish to turn Queen's evidence . . .'

‘Use your loaf,' Yates sneered.

‘It depends how much you want to rescue,' Vicary explained. ‘You see, it's not just the loss of liberty . . . you'll be in high security, no soft category D for you . . . Parkhurst, Durham, Peterhead . . . right up there in Scotland, and in the far north of same. Porridge for breakfast and veggies which have had all the goodness boiled out of them for lunch, with a bit of meat. Same for supper. No women – I know how you like the ladies – and nothing to come out to.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘A proceeds of crime order. Get a team of forensic accountants into your books, your computer database, and everything you cannot prove you came by legitimately can be seized: house, contents therein, cars, everything. The lot, the whole works. That's how it works. You do twenty as a guest of Her Majesty, come out, fit as a fiddle after all those years of prison life and do you go back to your posh house in Virginia Water? No . . . no, you don't. You come out to a hostel for the homeless and destitute – Salvation Army living. They're not in the
Michelin Guide
, but it's a roof, and they serve meals on time . . . just like in prison, But by then you'll be used to that, because you'll be well and truly institutionalized.'

Curtis Yates's pallor paled.

‘Of course you could avoid that. Jump before you're pushed.'

‘I'll still end up in the slammer.'

‘Yes . . . yes, you will, but the difference is that if you jump, you jump into a safety net. A guilty plea will work towards a parole, but if you're pushed, that can be messy . . . you fall from a great height on to a hard surface.'

Yates remained silent.

‘So far we've chatted to Clive Sherwin and Gail Bowling. You've got good friends there, they didn't tell us anything, but that's only the first two, and you've got a lot of geezers working for you. We still want to talk to Rusher, but really it just needs one to see sense and you're on your way to the Old Bailey.' Vicary paused. ‘Go to the pub tonight.'

‘The pub?'

‘Yes, up the East End, with the villains, or wherever you sup in Virginia Water. Buy a beer and then look around you, and then think that you can't take this for granted because it's liberty. Think that it could be the last time you see the inside of an English pub again, and choose what you want to watch on the TV for the last time . . . and retire for the night when you want to . . . also for the last – well, maybe the last – time for twenty years, because tomorrow at seven a.m. I'll be knocking on your door with a warrant for your arrest.'

‘Tomorrow!'

‘Or the next day, or the day after that, but stop taking the good life for granted. We're closing in on you, Curtis. You should think about working for yourself.'

SEVEN

T
he man let the phone ring twice before he picked it up.

‘Forensic laboratory, sir.' The voice on the other end of the phone line was crisp, efficient.

‘Yes?'

‘Just to let you know beforehand that the DNA tests on the cigarette butts you sent came back negative. No record at all.'

‘I see.'

‘Just thought I'd let you know in advance. We'll be faxing the report in an hour or two, once it's been written up.'

‘OK,' the man replied warmly, ‘appreciate the notice.'

He replaced the phone and returned his attention to his monthly statistical returns.

Penny Yewdall slept late. She woke and looked about her in the shadows and the gloom of the room in which the Welsh girl had been murdered – the room which was now her room. She felt isolated. Alone. Vulnerable. She said as loudly as she dared, ‘I am a copper. I am a copper. I am a damn good copper, police woman Yewdall of the Murder and Serious Crime Squad, New Scotland Yard.' She rose and clawed on a few items of clothing – underwear, jeans, a tee shirt – and walked into the kitchen, where she found a nervous looking Billy Kemp, whom she'd met in passing, sitting at the table, occupying the same chair that Josie Pinder had occupied the previous morning, and, like Josie Pinder, he also drank a mug of tea and smoked a hand-rolled cigarette.

‘We have to stay in today, you and me.' He spoke with a trembling voice.

‘Have to?'

‘Yes. The manager of WLM Rents called round earlier and told me that we have to stay in. You and me.'

‘Why?' Penny Yewdall sank into a vacant chair at the table.

‘Dunno, but I think someone's going to get a kicking.'

‘Oh . . .'

‘And we're going to watch.'

‘We . . .?' Yewdall's voice failed her.

‘We. I'm in the same boat as you. I'm a gofer being trained up. Trained and tested. I've delivered a few packages, three in all.'

‘I delivered one – to an address in East Ham.'

‘Chaucer Road?'

‘Yes.'

‘Same as me. I don't reckon it's some big important address, they're just testing us. They won't let us go to really important addresses until we're further in.'

‘I thought you were established. It was just an impression I had.'

‘Yes, I have been here a while . . . just not getting anywhere with Yates. He's still not certain of me. Have you had a slap yet?'

‘No.'

‘I have, Yates slapped me round the head and punched me on the nose . . . just enough to make it bleed and said, “No one leaves me, remember that”.' Billy Kemp paused and gulped some tea. ‘Then he sent a couple of guys to check on my home address in Norwich.'